The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] ... With a Copious Index. To which is prefixed Some Account of his Life. In Four Volumes |
I. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
XII. |
XIII. |
XIV. |
XV. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
XII. |
XIII. |
XIV. |
XV. |
XVI. |
XVII. |
XVIII. |
XIX. |
XX. |
XXI. |
XXII. |
XXIII. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
XII. |
XIII. |
XIV. |
XV. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
II. |
II. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
XII. |
XIII. |
XIV. |
XV. |
XVI. |
XVII. |
II. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
XII. |
XIII. |
XIV. |
XV. |
XVI. |
XVII. |
XVIII. |
II. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
I. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
II. |
III. |
I. |
II. |
I. |
II. |
I. |
II. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
IV. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
ELEGY.
|
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | ||
358
ELEGY.
[In days of yore, the golden days of rhime]
The Poet remarks the different Treatment of Bards of the present, and that of past Ages; and complains of not meeting as much Encouragement for his Verses as Organ Grinders, Exhibitors of Bears, Camels, dancing Dogs, and Punch.
In days of yore, the golden days of rhime,
The mighty monarch to his minstrel bow'd;
But what is now the character, sublime?
A blind old ballad singer and his crowd!
The mighty monarch to his minstrel bow'd;
But what is now the character, sublime?
A blind old ballad singer and his crowd!
Kings too were poets—David to his lyre
Sung sweetest elegy—and David's son
Sung to the harp with all his father's fire,
And all the virgins of Judea won.
Sung sweetest elegy—and David's son
Sung to the harp with all his father's fire,
And all the virgins of Judea won.
And thou, Isaiah, too didst deal in song;
Born, let me say, a gentleman, and bred
In satire, let me tell thee, rather strong,
That broke the Babylonian monarch's head.
Born, let me say, a gentleman, and bred
In satire, let me tell thee, rather strong,
That broke the Babylonian monarch's head.
Had I said half as bad of George the Third,
As thou of Babylon's imperious king;
My fate had been far different, take my word—
My just reward, the pill'ry or the string!
As thou of Babylon's imperious king;
My fate had been far different, take my word—
My just reward, the pill'ry or the string!
The organ-grinding girl, whose discords kill,
Is beckon'd by our dames of highest quality;
And grist she gaineth to her screaming mill—
And court'sying, thanks them for their hospitality.
Is beckon'd by our dames of highest quality;
And grist she gaineth to her screaming mill—
And court'sying, thanks them for their hospitality.
359
To me no lover of the Muses cries,
‘Out with thy wallet—let us hear thy odes—
Then George's image shall delight thine eyes—
Behold a sixpence for the song of Gods.’
‘Out with thy wallet—let us hear thy odes—
Then George's image shall delight thine eyes—
Behold a sixpence for the song of Gods.’
No nymph of quality on Peter calls;
No Lesbia fond of sparrows and the dove;
And bid me make them melting madrigals,
And say, ‘Sweet Peter, sing us songs of love!’
No Lesbia fond of sparrows and the dove;
And bid me make them melting madrigals,
And say, ‘Sweet Peter, sing us songs of love!’
The man who carries punch about the street,
His scolding wife, the baker, and the devil;
With fair rewards from all spectators meet,
And to his poverty each purse is civil.
His scolding wife, the baker, and the devil;
With fair rewards from all spectators meet,
And to his poverty each purse is civil.
The man who leads his camel up and down,
Where sports a grinning monkey on his hump;
Dines princely, such the favour of the town,
And never mourns like me in doleful dump.
Where sports a grinning monkey on his hump;
Dines princely, such the favour of the town,
And never mourns like me in doleful dump.
The man who leads about a dancing bear,
Or dancing dogs, good living never lack,
While I, who lead the Muses (fate severe!)
Can neither treat my belly nor my back.
Or dancing dogs, good living never lack,
While I, who lead the Muses (fate severe!)
Can neither treat my belly nor my back.
The clowns of thirty pounds a year (no more)
Laugh at the sons of song, and scornful pass us;
‘One little rood of dirty land,’ they roar,
‘Is worth a thousand acres of Parnassus.’
Laugh at the sons of song, and scornful pass us;
‘One little rood of dirty land,’ they roar,
‘Is worth a thousand acres of Parnassus.’
The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | ||